I'd Prefer Not To
by KelleyGreen
Summary: Sleuthing for a sadistic serial killer, the SVU team encounters a persnickety professor. And Elliot, while avoiding alliteration from here on in, has to bone up on his literary references.


Summary: The SVU detectives encounter a persnickety professor while sleuthing for a sadistic serial killer. And the newly divorced Elliot, while avoiding alliteration from here on in, has to bone up on his literary references.

**Rated: M**

I'd Prefer Not To

Let us go then, you and I

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient, etherized upon a table;

Let us go through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question…

Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?'

Let us go and make our visit.

-T.S. Eliot

Her tan was fading. A reasonable indication that she should stop showing her students slides from her trip to the Mediterranean. Or so said Karen, her favorite advisee.

"Your pictures were really cool and everything, but, I mean, are you going to talk about your trip until we finish The Iliad? It's a pretty long book."

"C'est la vie d'un universitaire." She told her. "I plan on visiting prison inmates when we get to Boetheus." She was supposed to know Boetheus already, since they weren't reading chronologically, but her blank-faced smile suggested that, like many of her classmates, Karen was behind in the reading.

"Not there yet?"

"I thought Consolation of Philosophy was tomorrow on the syllabus."

"And tomorrow, and tomorrow." She smiled, locking my office door and heading with Karen to the stiflingly hot classroom at the end of the hall. During summer sessions she taught two courses only, both undergraduate, and now, in August, she had remembered that my grad students, sophists though they sometimes were, spoiled her completely.

"So let's say that the assertion is valid. I know, it's time to go. But think on this, guys: going from there, is that specious reasoning a reflection of Roman etymology, or only of Roman literature? Should we divine popular philosophy from the Bronte sisters? Remember what Hawthorne said."

"That horde of scribbling women." A man with glasses and a pockmarked face answered for them, although the students weren't listening anymore.

"Or maybe they were the fates. Jane Eyre aside. Can I help you?"

"Detective Munch, my partner detective Tutuola. We're from the NYPD. Is there a place we could speak, Dr. Welsh?"

iiii

"Before we start, let me say that this stapler is simply a re-appropriation of office supplies. I'd be happy to give it back." She offered the detectives chairs and turned on the small, useless fan occupying the window.

"We're here about Daniel Bess."

"Mm. I'm sorry I can't offer you coffee, but the department office is closed this time of day."

"Your Chair told us that you received a package from him."

"Which he sent to the police, and which I never opened. I'm afraid that all I can tell you, unless you want directions to the psych department."

"Daniel Bess was one of your doctoral students three years ago, right?"

"Right."

"Have you had any contact with him since his graduation?"

"He sent me a few emails in the months following, mostly regarding a letter of reference, but no, nothing since then."

"You're aware that he's the suspect in three rape-murders?"

"Yes." She pressed her hands to her temples. "How can I help you?"

"We'd like you to take a look at the package."

"Is that really necessary? I think I'd prefer not to see it. I'm sure you have people working with you who can be far more helpful on something like this."

iiiii

"So that's Munch's intellectual superhero?" Elliot Stabler asked his captain, both men watching John lead the woman into a room with the department's consulting psychiatrist, George Huang.

"Apparently."

"She's blond." Elliot said dumbly.

"So?" His partner demanded. "That means she can't be a PhD?"

"Of course not. She's just."

"John's type?"

"Right."

"So what's her deal?" Olivia asked.

"Classics professor, apparently NYU's golden child since she published a book hailed by Munch and the rest of the socially inept as groundbreaking stuff. Although what's groundbreaking about anything 4,000 years old I don't know."

"And they mentioned her on ESPN?"

"Ha, ha. I know more Latin than Semper Fi."

iiiii

In his office, Dr. Huang produced the package from Daniel Bess—a letter on heavy, high-quality cardstock, and Polaroids of a woman's severed foot, covered in Latin with a ballpoint pen. Dr. Welsh put a hand to her mouth, looking down.

"I'm sorry. I know this is graphic, but we need your help. We have enhanced images of the foot. We were hoping you could tell us what he's written on it." Dr. Huang handed her several grainy photographs of the foot, enlarged to make the text readable.

"I don't need these." She shook her head, fighting bile.

"I'm sorry there's no other way." Much soothed. "But you knew Bess, and you know Latin." He picked up the pictures, which she'd set on Huang's desk.

"I don't need them because I know what it says. Excuse me." She stood up. "Where's the bathroom?"

Alarmed, both men stood up with her, but Liz only made it to a garbage can.

"Sorry. I'm so sorry about that." She said, once the mess had been removed and Munch had given her a wet paper towel. Huang watching closely, she stared up at the ceiling, pinching off tears with her thumb and forefinger. "It's a passage from Ovid. Jupiter lusts after a woman named Io, and Juno turns her into a white cow to keep Io hidden. I know the passage. I'll fax you a copy of the translation he's using."

"How is it that you're so sure?" Huang wondered.

Liz shook her head.

"Because he's contacted you, hasn't he? You were lying to us earlier. He's sent you this passage before."

"Why did you lie to us this morning?" Munch demanded.

"Danny was a little bit persistent when he was my student. Since he was my age, I didn't consider his advances inappropriate, even though I wasn't interested—he was never vulgar. After his dissertation he would occasionally send me letters, and that passage. It's such a sad story—Io's despair—I felt sorry for him. I wrote him back the first three times, wishing him the best, telling him about any open positions I'd heard of. I thought he was depressed, which I suggested to him along with the idea of counseling. After his name came out in the papers… I just threw the letters away."

"Did he send them to you at home or at the office?"

"At home."

"Did you give him your address?"

"Not explicitly, but it's easy to find. And he'd been to my home, for dinner, with a few other students, while still in the doctoral program."

"So this package was the first thing he mailed to you through your department."

"Right. Look, could someone give me a ride home? I'm really not feeling well."

iiiii

"I'm going to talk to my captain about posting men at your house." Munch announced, once parked in her driveway.

Liz looked out at her little house: the careful flower garden, the front door in stained-glass, the sunny yellow she'd painted the place last year.

"If Danny wanted to kill me, I imagine he would have done so already."

"That's why you're the professor and I'm the detective." Munch answered. "Trust me."

"Unlikely."

"Why's that?"

"You made me puke."

"In a roundabout way."

"If you really feel it's necessary, then post away. But can we keep this as low profile as possible?"

"We'll do our best. Dr. Huang wants to talk to you about the letters and the Ovid passage."

iiiii

For the past week a circuit of police officers had been spending their evenings in her driveway. To each one she offered food, coffee, and use of the TV; all rejected her offers of comfort with the excuse of being on duty, except for John Munch. Twice this week he had stopped by, once while another officer was on duty. Now, on Friday, he was in her kitchen slicing tomatoes.

"Five times?"

"Five times."

"So you're either a romantic or a letch."

"At my age I'd have to be rich to correctly fit your letch profile. I pay too much alimony to be rich. You've never been married?"

"No." She lied, pushing aside an ugly memory.

"Really? Because your FBI file says differently."

"I have an FBI file?"

"Big Brother does not look kindly upon Chomsky-reading ACLU members."

"Ug." Liz answered, refilling her wine glass.

"So you were married."

"I was young. It didn't end well."

"Understood. Huang says you're giving him the runaround."

"I can't help him. I don't have any insights were Danny is concerned, other than what I've already told you."

"You'd probably be more helpful than you think."

Liz thought again of Matt, and of Diana, remembering the hollow voice of the grief counselor. "I'll get back to him. I will." She answered, forcing her mind into the present.

iiiii

"Hi."

It was Wednesday, close to nine, and still painfully hot in Liz's office. She was grading papers with one hand and pulling at the collar of her tank top with the other. Dr. Huang was at her door, and she felt suddenly self-conscious.

"Dr. Huang. Hi. Come on in."

"Your police detail said I could find you here. I decided to track you down, since you've so steadily avoided meeting with me."

"Sorry about that. Work's been piling up." She lied. Liz had decided to hate shrinks after Matt and Diana, after the grief counseling, after her breakdown, after the forced sabbatical mandated by a snotty psychiatrist.

"That's alright." Huang answered, his voice soft. "I realize how stressful this situation must be for you. Do you think we could talk about Daniel Bess?"

"What would you like to know?"

"How would you describe Bess' personality?"

"I'd call him troubled, but I'm not sure how much of that's a reflection of what's going on now. It's been my experience that non-traditional students are more eager to share their life experiences in the classroom, and that was very true for Danny. He tended to internalize readings—every poem, every book, even Plato's dialogues were somehow relevant to his personal life. He had a habit of disclosing past hardships in class. It often made other students uncomfortable."

"What kind of hardships?"

"The death of his mother, for one, when he was young. From what he told me and my class, his father showed him no love whatsoever after her death, showering his sister with affection and being cruel to Danny."

"Cruel how?"

"Cruel abusive."

"And he told you about this abuse."

"He discussed it in class. Eventually some of the other students complained, and I had to ask him to censor himself."

"And how did he respond?"

"He was hurt. I don't think he was aware that his behavior was inappropriate. I told him that he was free to talk to me anytime, but that class was off-limits. He started coming in during my office hours, but eventually I realized that I was in over my head, and hooked him up with student services."

"And did that upset him?"

"It did. But I didn't see an alternative."

iiiii

"So you didn't get anything?" Elliot pressed Huang at the station.

"It wasn't an interrogation. She answered my questions, but she wasn't especially forthcoming."

"Maybe she doesn't like shrinks." Olivia suggested sourly. "I'm due in court—see you guys tomorrow."

"Did she say anything about the letters?" Elliot persisted.

"I didn't ask. Unfortunately, I think Olivia's right. Welsh already told Munch about the letters, and given how upsetting our first encounter was, I thought it best to steer clear. She did tell me that Bess was abused, and that he discussed his abuse with anyone who would listen while he was a student. I don't think she has any information that will help us find him, but I do think that he'll continue to try and contact her."

"I think he did more than that." Cregan said, stepping out of his office.

iiiii

The policeman out front was asleep in his car. Bartleby was pacing and barking furiously, so Liz figured the cop was making some kind of noise outside that only her dog could hear.

"Bart, calm down." She said again, rolling over on the couch, where she had fallen asleep. Suddenly the German Shepard ran at the back door, standing up to paw at the glass. Exhausted, Liz blamed it on a raccoon until she heard something twisting the deadbolt. "Shit!" She exclaimed, rushing for the front door.

iiiiii

Most of the neighbors were watching from a porch or window, curious about the sirens. Crime scene technicians were making a mess out of her living room. Liz was on the sofa, Bartleby's nose in her shoulder, where he whined softly.

"Wimp." She told him, watching Detective Stabler walk in her direction.

"Hi." He sat down at the other end of the couch, feeling awkward and blaming it on his partner's absence. "I need to take your statement."

"Right." She answered, brushing messy hair from her face. "Bart was barking and jumping at the door. I heard the lock turning, like someone was trying to open it. I ran outside and got Officer Vitelli, who found the—the pictures and the ring."

"Have you seen them?"

"I don't want to."

Elliot looked around the living room, which was mostly bookcases, save a shelf of Greek antiquities in one corner and a cello in the other. On a stand beside him was an expensively framed photograph of Welsh, grouped with a man and a young girl in front of a beach sunset.

"Is this your daughter?" He asked, figuring that she was divorced, and being recently acquainted with the painful subject. Liz nodded.

"How old?"

"She was seven." Liz shook her head, pushing her hands into the dog's fur. "I'm sure you already know all about it. Is that what this is about?" Her mouth slanted. "You think it was Danny somehow? Because that's just fucking stupid. I wish you people would just leave me the hell alone." Liz pushed up from the sofa and headed quickly upstairs, with only the dog to follow her.

iiiii

"According to the reports, she came home one night and found them dead, both shot in the master bedroom where they kept a safe. The police figured that the husband locked the daughter in there while he tried to fight off the burglar." Munch explained.

"And you didn't see fit to share this information with the rest of us?" Elliot asked.

"I heard about the murder after reading one of her books." Munch defended himself. "I looked it up in the records."

"And they never found the guy?"

"No. Why did you ask her about the picture, anyway?"

"Jesus, I don't know. I saw the picture, figured they split up, thought maybe I could commiserate, make her comfortable. I don't know, Munch. I'm not a psychic." He defended, feeling angrier than was justified, he knew. He also felt guilty, and was unsure as to why.

iiiii

Liz turned over in her bed, wondering how late it was. Three-thirty. If she fell asleep right now she could still get three and a half hours. Maybe skip shaving her legs and get four. It wasn't as if she was the first person to lose a spouse or a child. A friend had even suggested a support group, no doubt full of unlucky people like herself. She wondered if such group therapy wouldn't function better as a dating circle— widows and widowers with a mutual interest in macramé or downhill skiing getting together to share their hobbies and abate the horrible, lead-weight grief of sleeping alone. The dog, who knew nothing of Liz's previous life and who was snoring softly at the foot of the bed, responded to its master's shifting feet with a ruff.

"Fine." She scowled, wishing, strangely, that the dog would choose to sleep beside her. She got up for a glass of wine and went to her Cello, playing a sad Allamande over and over, until her bones were tired enough for sleep.

iiiii

Detectives Stabler and Benson were scheduled to meet with the chair of Dr. Welsh's department, Fred Putnam, and were hoping he might shed some more light on Daniel Bess. The school's alumni association had given them nothing in terms of an up-to-date address.

"So what happened last night?" Olivia asked, juggling coffee and seat belt.

"Bess cut open Welsh's screen door and left her a present: more pictures of a hand covered in Latin verse. Plus—and get this—a wedding ring. Lab's printing it but I'll bet any money it's from his latest victim."

Olivia grimaced. "So he's really fixed on her."

"And she doesn't seem to care, which has me thrown."

"You think she's involved somehow?"

"I guess it's possible, but serial killers tend to work alone. Did you know her husband and daughter were murdered?"

"No. When?"

"Three years ago, according to Munch, who's apparently writing this woman's freaking biography. Robbery-murder—they never found the doer."

"So I'm sure we fill her with confidence."

"I'm sure."

Fred Putnam, it was widely rumored by the many disgruntled NYU Lit faculty, had received his position as chair in large part because of a substantial donation to the school by Putnam Publishing House. It was also rumored that the small, uptight Brit hadn't been impressive enough for a UK college, and also rumored that he had a women's underwear fetish. Most of these vicious rumors were untrue, and instead motivated into conception by the chair's extreme unpopularity.

"Please, sit down." Putnam told the detectives. His large office was dark and messy, bare of pictures or any other personal thing. "I'd like to help in any way I can."

"You sent Bess' package to the police?" Elliot asked.

"Of course. I wanted nothing to do with it, nor did I think that Liz would."

"What can you tell us about Daniel Bess?" Olivia asked.

"Not very much, I'm afraid. He was bright, but not so bright as he ego would have indicated, in my opinion. Neither was he especially motivated, in my opinion. His dissertation failed on its first defense, and it took him six months to make his committee's revisions."

"Was Dr. Welsh on his dissertation committee?"

"Of course. She was his advisor." _She didn't tell us that,_ Stabler thought, sharing a look with his partner.

"Did they have a close relationship?"

"Advisors tend to be close with their doctoral students. It's an intense time, and the student really looks to their advisor as a mentor. But yes, Liz and Bess were close, although she really wasn't there for him when he was revising his dissertation. But then, that was during her breakdown, as I remember."

"Breakdown?" Olivia parroted.

"After Matt and Diana were killed. Liz was convinced the police would find the murderer and when they didn't she just… came apart. She would forget about lectures and stop holding office hours altogether. She cried constantly. Finally I had to insist upon her… taking some time off. But it did give her time to write her lovely book." Putnam balked. "You should really talk to Lev Maddox about it. He would know better than I."

iiiii

Lev Maddox taught comparative literature and had a kind of charm that Elliot found suspicious, although his partner seemed much more receptive.

"Liz and I met at Dartmouth as undergrads. She and Matt met our senior year, and it was instant." He snapped. "Matt was teaching at Columbia and they were trying hard to get pregnant again. When she realized that the murders would never be solved she got _mad_ at the police. I mean _mad_, you know?" He looked to Olivia for confirmation, sounding far too much like a beatnik. "Started going to brutality protests, getting active in the ACLU. I thought it would help her work through it, but she just couldn't keep it together."

"And Matt and Diana died right after Daniel Bess failed his dissertation defense?"

"Man, I'd forgotten about that." Maddox scratched his goatee. "Yea, Danny was really a mess about it, but after the murders Liz wasn't really able to focus on work. Took him six months to get his shit together."

"Do you think he blamed her?" Olivia asked.

"Do you think he could be connected to their deaths?" Elliot followed.

"I never thought about it." Maddox paused. "But I'm sure Liz would have, and she wouldn't have responded to his letters if that had been the case."

"What about now? We've noticed that Dr. Welsh doesn't seem to be overly concerned about Daniel Bess stalking her."

"He's stalking her? Wow, what a mess. Listen, I tried to be there for Liz, I really did. I'm her friend and I wanted to help her through everything, right? But, I mean, even when she got out of the hospital, she was still a mess. It wouldn't surprise me if she just didn't care anymore."

"Care about what?"

"Living. I mean, it wasn't a cry for help. Neighbors smelled fumes coming out of her garage."

iiiii

On Saturdays Liz volunteered at the Adult Literacy Center in Ocean Hill, where the city was renovating old brownstones and shuffling poor tenants into Brownsville. She did not consider it charity—the volunteer work had been a shrink's suggestion, to help combat her depression and keep her "outwardly focused." And while she was there, repeating "buh, buh, b-at" to an old man, or listening to the stories of his children, it worked. But it was a temporary blindness, much like alcohol, which worked too well, or sex, which often failed.

"See Jane." The old man said, his DT hands shaking over the big print. "See Jane smile."

iiiii

Elliot turned on the lights in his Econo Lodge suite and realized he'd left the TV on, as was becoming his habit. It was rent-by-the-week, full of businessmen and the newly divorced. On the bed were files and shed clothes, an island surrounded by mildewing towels. He kept the "do not disturb" sign on the door at all times, embarrassed by the obviousness of his forced bachelorhood.

In his twenties, in between children, Elliot had had something of a social life, but over time the lives of his kids had taken its place, with which he had been content. Now, without the constant chaos of a family to come home to, he felt very much alone. Fearing that they might again be asleep on the job, but motivated mostly be a need for distraction, Elliot drove to Liz Welsh's home to check up on her police detail.

"Hey Freddy." He hailed the officer parked outside her house.

"Hey, man, I'm awake." The other man defended with a half-smile, gesturing to his coffee.

"So I see. Is she?"

"Lights are on." Freddy shrugged.

Liz answered the door in ragged sweats and an old Dartmouth t-shirt. "Hi."

"Hi. Can I come in?"

"Sure, of course." She answered. "Drink?"

"No, thanks." Elliot answered, noticing the open bottle of wine, which was mostly empty.

"Please let me apologize for last night. I was extremely rude to you and without provocation."

"It's fine." He waved. "I should apologize to you. I didn't know about your family."

"You guys don't actually think that could have anything to do with Danny, do you?"

"It's worth looking into, I think. I'm going to talk with the officers that worked your case."

"Mendez." She said, without prompt. "Detective Paul Mendez."

"My partner and I talked to Dr. Putnam today."

"He tell you I was mental?" She asked, pouring another glass and making quick work of it.

"No. But we also talked to Lev Maddox."

"Ah." Liz sighed, and it was clear she was on her way to drunk. "And _he _told you I was mental. Suicidal? He's fond of telling that story. Spreading it around among the faculty." She made an exaggerated gesture. "As if they weren't aware. I thought about leaving—what with everyone whispering about me all the time, the false concern and the gossip. I think some people wondered it I'd killed them myself. Then Columbia made me an offer. I even went for an interview. But that was where Matt worked. And apparently if you write a bestseller it's okay to be the department wacko."

"You're not a wacko." Elliot answered, unprepared for her candor.

"Mm. Charity case? I'd much rather be a charity case. I'd like to be someone's charity case. Would that fall under 'protect and serve?'"

He was alarmed, and regretting making the visit, but then again there was something comforting in this, some selfish relief in weathering a grief other than his own.

"How long have you been married?" Liz asked, apropos of nothing.

"I'm divorced. Newly divorced. Divorcing, I guess." He answered, wondering when he would be forced to stop wearing his wedding ring.

"I wore mine for a long time. I felt I deserved that, somehow. Some status of widowhood. It was such a beautiful diamond." She smiled, falling into a chair. "Divorce must be hell."

"It is." He admitted.

"What happened?"

"She left me." He said bluntly. "Just took the kids and went to her mother's, without a word."

"Love," she said conspiratorially, leaning in so that he could smell soap and wine, "is a bitch-goddess."

The wise thing would have been to leave, as Elliot sensed he was between her crosshairs. Olivia would kill him if she found out, and Munch had a painfully obvious crush on the woman. But it would be easy, and then forgettable. She had been clawing at anything and finding nothing for so long, she wouldn't cling to him, he knew.

"Kathy," he began, "my wife—my ex-wife. She was the first woman I slept with."

"And the only?"

"And the only."

She laughed. "I was Matt's second. I thought that was so sweet. After he died I made the colossal mistake of sleeping with the illustrious Dr. Maddox. Who reads Lacan in its _original _French. I was so needy." She softened. "I thought it might help, somehow—move on, cleanse the palate. But it just left a bad taste." She chuffed. "He's a weaselly bastard."

"I got that impression. Were he and Matt friends?"

Liz shrugged. "We'd have dinner together, the four of us, when he was still married. They babysat for Diana a few times." She explained, then pinched her shoulders together, as if to mimic some horrible constriction in her chest. She stood up, refilling her glass and beginning to pace. Elliot thought she was beautiful. Some of it was natural beauty, ever-present, and some was vulnerability, and the taboo of his knowledge of it. A glass figure with cracked glaze, its slender arm likely to break.

"I should go."

"You should stay."

"You're drunk." He said gently.

"Then mission accomplished!" She exclaimed, coming to sit beside him on the sofa. "What big _eyes_ you have." She said singsong, leaning in for a kiss. He took the invitation, going headlong into the softness of her foreign mouth. Her kisses were deep and desperate, and he understood them. She was wriggling out of her pants.

"Wait a minute, wait." He broke away, feeling guilty. "I don't want to be another Lev Maddox."

"Fine." She acquiesced quickly, kissing his jaw. "You don't have to be the big bad wolf. You can be the white knight if you want. That's your steed in the driveway. But really, ravenous would be easier on us both."

"Elizabeth, stop." He insisted, pushing her to arm's length.

"Okay, but, memento mori. Though it would only be a little death." She giggled, standing up to trip over the coffee table.

"Come on." He sighed. "I'll put you to bed."

"Are you the Green Knight instead?" She asked, making a poor attempt at keeping her balance. "Come on." She said, baring her neck. "Three blows."

"I don't know what you're talking about." He answered.

"Sir Gawain and the Green Knight." She answered, looking suddenly sad. "Never mind." Liz hurried upstairs, returning with a green tie. "Think of it as a sash." She said seriously, looping it around his neck. "I'd prefer the axe without it."

"I can't take this. I don't even know why you're giving it to me." Elliot answered, deeply confused.

"Mm. Maybe ask Dr. Maddox. Or some other literary soul."

Faced with her sad eyes andher clear look of defeat, Elliot felt worse for leaving than he had for kissing her to begin with.

"Goodnight, Detective Stabler." She said kindly, walking him to the door on unsteady feet.

iiiii

"And when did this come up?" Munch demanded, looking even more suspicious than usual.

"Ah," Stabler groped, "I don't know. Last night I went by to make sure her detail wasn't sleeping again, and she started rambling about the 'Green Knight.'" He left out her being drunk.

"It's a fourteenth century Arthurian tale pitting chivalric values against our baser natural impulses." Munch waggled his eyebrows for emphasis. "The Green Knight appears in King Arthur's court, challenging any interested party to a duel—i.e., the chance to whack his head off with an axe. Sir Gawain accepts, but the supernatural Green Knight's head grows right back, and so it's the Green Knight's turn to try for Gawain's head in one year. In the meantime Gawain sleeps with a married Lady, who gives him a green sash, which she claims will protect him from all harm. It doesn't, but Gawain survives the axe, anyway, and everybody learns a lesson, the end."

"So which one's the bad guy?"

"There is no bad guy. Unless, of course, you'd like to discuss the nature of 'bad guy' in the Arthurian ideology. Contemporarily speaking, my vote's the military-industrial complex."

"I'm sorry I asked." Stabler rolled his eyes, wondering if Munch and Dr. Welsh weren't already sleeping together. They certainly seemed like a better match.

iiiii

Stabler and Benson headed for Tribeca to talk with Paul Mendez, who had worked Matt and Diana Welsh's homicides three years ago.

"So what about Maddox?" Olivia wondered as they headed down Canal.

"What about him."

"I'm just wondering how it is that he knew so much about Welsh. You think they're sleeping together?"

"Not now, no."

Olivia looked at him sidelong. Since Kathy had left, Elliot seemed to approach every woman they encountered with exceptional zeal. She attributed it to the desperation of that sudden—and unexpected— loneliness, and knew she should probably cut him some slack. Still it irritated her, mostly for reasons she was unwilling to examine.

"I can't tell you much you don't already know from the reports." Mendez apologized. "We didn't have a clue who the doer was, and we still don't, far as I know. My partner thought it was a burglary that just went sour."

"But you didn't?"

"Maybe." Mendez shrugged. "I guess if the guy was high. But this guy knew to take expensive stuff, you know? He did take her computer, which I thought was kind of weird, since he didn't bother with the stereo or TV. Just took the antiques, art, stuff like that. Plus why bother with the kid, if she'd been locked in the bedroom the whole time and didn't see anything?"

"Was Dr. Welsh ever a suspect?" Olivia wondered.

"Not really. Her alibi checked out right away. Neighbors called 911 when they heard her screaming. I found her," he paused, holding out his arms to demonstrate, "holding the little girl. She was sitting on the floor, rocking her back and forth and just wailing like crazy. Took two of us to get her off the floor."

"You never found any prints?"

"Totally clean. Which rules out the junkie theory, far as I'm concerned. You guys think you have something?"

"We're not sure yet." Elliot answered. "We'll keep you posted."

"Well that was pretty much a waste of time." Olivia complained, when they'd returned to the 1-6.

"Pretty much." He agreed, mind elsewhere.

"You know the pictures the detail found at Welsh's house?" Munch asked, hanging up the phone. "Looks like we found the model."

iiiii

In August the tourists made 278 a nightmare, and the bottleneck of cabs and busses led the way to the crowded crime scene. Finn shot the finger to a greyhound bus of tourists, many of whom were aiming their cameras at the police tape.

"Lovely." Olivia scowled.

The medical examiner was hunched over the victim, her pale body nude and turning gray.

"Looks like your boy." Warner told them.

"How long has she been dead?"

"I'd say a good 72 hours. She's a dump, clearly, and in plain sight this time. I'll know more tomorrow, when I finish the autopsy and lab work. Come see me then."

In the morning, Elliot and Olivia met the medical examiner in the regulated cool of the morgue, where the recently discovered body of Bess' fourth victim had since come under her scrutiny.

"Her name's Sharon Levine. Her husband identified the ring found at Dr. Welsh's. Also she's 27, which is considerably older than the rest of his victims."

"He wanted the wedding ring." Olivia responded. "That's why she needed to be older."

"Other than that there's really nothing new," Warner continued, "bound, raped and strangled, with the hand severed post-mortem. See the red in the eyes?" Warner pointed beneath a lifted eyelid, making Elliot's stomach turn. "They're petechiae. Ruptured blood vessels, and their numerousness tell me that her strangulation was a long ordeal. This one fought hard."

"But why bother with strangulation?" Elliot wondered later, sharing takeout with Olivia, Munch, and Huang.

"Because it was a traditional form of Roman execution." Finn answered, stepping in to the room.

"Says who?"

"Says Elizabeth Welsh." He answered. "Someone strangled her dog."

iiiii

Liz was seated on her front step when the detectives arrived, mascara thick on her face, a cigarette in her unsteady hand. "I've taken up smoking." She told Elliot, blowing a haze in his direction.

"Who the hell gave you that?" He demanded.

She jerked a thumb at the uniform hovering nervously behind her.

"Where's the dog?" He barked at the officer, who pointed inside with a guilty face.

"Bartleby." Liz corrected. "His _name_ is Bartleby."

"Where's Munch?" Stabler withered, unprepared for another round with this broken woman.

"With Finn," Olivia answered, "working out Levine."

"Come with me for a sec." Elliot told the uniform, who followed him around to the side of the house. "Is this some kind of joke to you guys?" He demanded, very close to the other man's face. "You bring a Gameboy along in case you get bored?"

"No, no." He stuttered. "She was at work. She goes to work, we go with her. She said she forgot to let the dog out and wanted to come by at lunch. I brought her over; she goes in and then runs back out, screaming at me that the dog's dead."

Elliot spun quickly away, feeling jumpy and unsettled, like a current without ground.

Inside, technicians were making a mess of the kitchen, dusting floors, surfaces, and the newly replaced screen door with a black talc they would not bother to scrub off when finished.

"She says she didn't have a muzzle." One told him, gesturing to the green nylon covering the dog's mouth.

"How the hell did he get it on?" Olivia asked.

"Looks like pepper spray." The tech answered, gesturing to the empty canister now held in an evidence bag.

"Christ. So this was all about killing the dog." She concluded.

"Looks like payback to me." Elliot agreed. "I'm gonna bring her in, get her to pack a bag so she can get out of here. Cover that up, okay?"

"Elliot," Olivia warned, "why don't you let me do that?" She followed him to the door, her face tight. "Please don't do what I think you might. I'm praying to god that you haven't already." He prepared for a brawl, which was not uncommon between the partners.

"Listen, I've got it, okay? I'll take care of it." He stepped outside before she could answer. "Come on," he told Liz, who appeared not to have moved, "let's go grab your stuff so you can get out of here."

"You'll have to cover my eyes," she told him, droll as ever and stripping him of nerve, "I want to be surprised."

Upstairs, Elliot sat insensate on the bed while she composed an overnight bag, doing so slowly, as though she were going out of town and should be careful to remember everything. On the dresser were school photos, wedding pictures, a child's watercolor. Bright reminders of the dead.

"Ready?" He asked when she slung the bag over her shoulder.

"Steady. But not really."

"Let us go then, you and I." Elliot answered, and Liz's face turned upward in mild surprise. "Hey." He answered the silent question, feeling slighted at his underestimated intelligence. "He's my namesake." Out of habit or stupidity, Elliot headed west on 53rd, toward the Econo Lodge.

iiiii

Things were slightly neater, but not by much. Files were stacked on the dinette table, with Welsh and Bess' buried at the bottom. Takeout boxes were now heaped together in an open hefty bag, and the rank towels were a small hill in a far corner. It was, he suspected, some half-conscious act of premeditation. Maybe he was the bad guy after all.

"So John told me about Sir Gawain and the Green Knight." He began, pulling beer from the fridge.

"Do you think I'm sleeping with him? You're wondering, aren't you?" She asked.

"Are you?"

"I gave it some thought. He seemed interested. But not compassionate."

"Is that what you want?" Elliot wondered, his voice rust, "compassion?"

She stared at him for a full minute, her eyes a flatland through which he could see the horizon very clearly—a brightness of memory that had burned all soft places to ash. "Maybe pity," she answered finally, "isn't this pity?"

"So I guess I'm Sir Gawain." He changed topics, "since you gave me the sash. Which I'm going to give back."

"As you should, considering. It's a badge of sinfulness, representing cowardice and an excessive love of mortal life."

"It's a tie."

"And I'm a Lit Professor. Extrapolation is my life." Seated opposite him on the sofa, Liz pushed her feet toward him in a cautious invitation.

"How would this change anything?" He asked, sliding a hand into her shoe to remove it and setting his palm against the arch of her foot, thinking again of glass.

"I see two possibilities. One: a brief, but fondly remembered encounter. Two: things become awkward as hell." To pose a counter question, she slid her foot from his hand to his lap, toes curling.

"Um." He paused, looking over at her. In the dirty-window light of afternoon, to his surprise, she was self-conscious and unsure. Pushing her foot from his lap, Elliot stood up, where he toed off his shoes and removed his shirt and tie. "Okay, Guinevere." He decided, pulling her up by the hand and towards the unmade bed.

"You're mixing metaphors." She answered blithely. He told her, "shh," and she thought of the sibilant and affricate, the Literacy Center and its old men, her baby girl who misplaced her fricatives, the harsh "bark!" of her dog. And then Elliot pushed her against the bed with a soft "whush." And then she thought, blissfully, of nothing.

And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

Would it have been worth while,

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed the universe into a ball

To roll it toward some overwhelming question,

To say: 'I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all'—

If one, settling a pillow by her head,

Should say: 'That is not what I meant at all.

That is not it, at all.'

iiiii

Liz moved her feet experimentally, feeling for the warm weight of the dog and wondering why he hadn't woken her to be fed.

"Oh." She realized, sitting up in the hotel bed. Elliot reached over as he had for nearly twenty years, touched the woman's shape beside him and, content, fell back asleep. Liz slipped quietly from the bed, finding her overnight bag. Later, Elliot woke alone, but unsurprised. He found a note beside the full coffeepot:

_And indeed there will be time_

_In a minute there is time_

_For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse._

iiiii

"Morning." Stabler greeted the squad room as he settled behind his desk.

"Morning." Olivia responded, giving him a look of serious disapproval. "Where's Welsh?"

"At work, I'm guessing." He answered, noticing Munch's glance over and hoping Olivia would be wise enough to drop the subject.

She did, wondering if Welsh wasn't still asleep in her partner's stopgap home. She wanted very much to believe they hadn't slept together, but it was clear from yesterday that something was going on, and he'd always had a thing for the damsel in distress. He had the right, she supposed, to sleep with whomever he wished—it wasn't as though she was celibate. Telling herself firmly that this was a sisterly jealousy, Olivia looked over at Munch.

"You guys get any leads from the Levine family?"

"Don't know yet." Munch answered. "They found a bag from City Books in her car. Joe Friday and I are heading over to check it out, whenever he decides to grace us with his presence."

iiiii

"So what's going on between you and Dr. Welsh?" Fin asked as they headed to the bookstore.

"Don't give me that. She's all you've talked about."

"She's important to the case." Munch answered shortly.

"Look, I'm not passing judgment." Fin raised his hands in self-defense. "I just think you should watch out, you know? That woman's got a 'keep away' sign tattooed on her forehead."

"Or so you'd think, right?" He said glumly. "This looks like the place."

The two men headed inside the small bookstore, asking to see the manager.

"You see this woman Monday night?" Fin asked.

"Yea, she comes in here pretty regularly." The manager answered.

"Do you have a mailing list?"

"Sure. You want a copy?"


End file.
